Poem July 18, 1903 Issue

The Miner's Little Daughter

Anon

My father dear works in the mines,
Down in the tunnels dark.
I sing so much he often says
I am his "meadow-lark."

Our little cabin on the hill
Is 'mid the tall, straight pines,
That seem to whisper all the day
To me about the mines.

I've twined some vines about the door,
I keep the house with care.
My father calls our cabin home
His "castle in the air."

I never put my clean gown on
Till just before our tea,
Because when father first comes home
He's black as black can be.

Anon.

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